


When Ink Met Ice

by NikkiJustTalk



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-23
Updated: 2012-04-24
Packaged: 2017-11-04 05:08:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NikkiJustTalk/pseuds/NikkiJustTalk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock grants John's miracle... but a tiny little miracle by the name of Megan could ruin everything, simply by saying the worst word in Universe... 'daddy'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Ok, this was it. No turning back.

Sherlock Holmes awkwardly flitted from one foot to the other as his thumbs rapidly sped across the keys of his phone, occasionally glancing impatiently up at the heavily overweight teenager in the poor excuse for a lift beside him as if waiting for the answer to a question that neither of them had asked.

When a pair of sullen, deep set eyes met his, he returned his gaze to Lestrades text, mentally recording every detail of the boy beside him because, he thought, you never know who might be a killer these days; inflamed right thumb, obvious joystick-addict, but imprint on the digit shows console must be at least 3 years old and considering their location, low income family. Bulge in upper left pocket in jacket, faint rustling sound; crisp packet. Obvious. Phone. Basic Samsung, full battery, mint condition, but again model is old and an oversized fluorescent charm, attached to top right corner, forcing the owner to actually notice its presence. Clearly old but underused. Unpopular bloke, then. Not many points of contact. Shoes show traces of the snow outside, but only enough to get him to the run down newsagents on the corner. Magazine outline visible in bag, milk, cigarettes, bread, soap but judging from the repugnant stink of unwashed clothes and pubescent sweat, obviously not for him. Still living with parents. Scuff on tracksuit bottoms showing…DING!

With a horrific screech, the lift jolted suddenly, sending Sherlock tumbling into the metal wall beside him, but his companion merely looked on miserably as the doors in front of them ripped apart revealing the corridor outside.

The boy trudged out without a second glance, leaving him alone in the silent lift, still clinging onto the handrail for dear life. Standing up with a low groan, he stepped gratefully into the cooler but not quite fresher air of Floor 23, Corridor G of Preston House, East London

. Glancing distastefully at the damp heavy ceilings, hideous wallpaper and crusty carpet underfoot, he paused outside the lift doors for a second, furiously fighting the impulse to turn and run, before the screech returned, loudly informing him that his only escape route had vanished into the murky depths of the floors below him.

He took a cautious step forward. Then another. And another, before frowning and vigorously giving himself a mental shake and striding along the narrow corridor. Door after door loomed out at him, number 5, number 6, number 17…His neighbours.

He'd walked along this corridor, every morning, every night;

He'd touched the same buttons in the lift as Sherlock had, and

His sleeve had brushed the wall just as Sherlock's had.

He might know the boy in the lift, might've seen to him at the surgery,

He would've carried shopping bags and suitcases and packing boxes to this door. The door in front of him. Number 34. His hand forcing the key into the lock, grabbing at the handle.

These thoughts fought and danced around his head, fighting for dominance, threatening to spill onto his lips as he stared at the fake gold numbering on the door. Suddenly a loud and obnoxious voice broke into his thought process, starling him back to reality;

'What the hell are you doin?' Realising the voice was directed at him he glanced out of the corner of his eyes before revolving his body towards the sound. In front of him stood a heavily pregnant woman, cigarette in hand, in nothing but an incredibly short dressing gown and slippers, lip curled in disdain.

When he simply raised a thin eyebrow at her, she repeated the question slower this time; 'I said what you doing?'

Sighing irritably he replied 'knocking'.

'Doesn't look like knocking' He scowled at her once more before turning back towards the door in the vain hope that she'd get the message and leave.

She did not. 'Go on then. Knock.'

He didn't want to do it. Not in front of her. Not after all this time.

Inhaling a deep breath, he spoke, gritting his teeth in annoyance 'How can I help you?'

She shrugged, taking a drag on her cigarette, eyes never leaving the strange man in front of her. 'Not much. Just checking you're not a pervert or lunatic trying to kill 'im.'

'Why would I try and kill him?'

She looked at him coolly before saying 'Wouldn't be the first one to try. 'E's a nice man, 'im. Helps me with the shoppin' sometimes. Don't wan' you hurtin 'im'

Too late, Sherlock thought, forcing a pleasant smile onto this face and raising his hand to the door. A few short knocks. Knuckles against wood.

Heart thudding in his chest, he waited for the footsteps inside, for the door to open, for his face to appear.

But it didn't.

There was just…nothing. He wasn't in.

He closed his eyes painfully before turning to the woman beside him and saying 'There. He's not in. Can't kill him now, can I?'

She snorted at him but made her way back into her flat reluctantly. Sherlock straightened up, having only just realised that he'd slouched at the sight of the door, and made to stride down the hall when '…hello?'

That voice. His voice. Calling to him.

He stopped suddenly, unwilling to show his face to the man he'd abandoned for three years. The man he'd left to live in this disgusting estate. His friend.

Running a hand over his face nervously, he spun slowly on his heel, waiting for the storm, the recognition, the pain.

Hoarsely he said 'Hello John', cheap light illuminating his face, shoes squeaking slightly on the hard carpet.

There was silence. Drawn out and tense, too quiet in Sherlock's head. He needed John to talk, to hit him or kiss him, just anything. 'You bastard' John's voice was hoarse too, but firm. Not shaky or choked, strong. For a moment, they just stared at each other, absorbing each other with their eyes. The detective, the doctor.

Then they locked eyes. Ink met ice.

'I…um, I granted your miracle. I'm not dead.'

The inky eyes turned to coal, dark with anger, humiliation.

He began to walk. 'No. No. Don't you dare. Don't you even dare, Sherlock! You. Are. Dead. You died! I was there, remember? You stood me there, forced me to watch as you jumped off a roof, for god's sake! I…I had to tell Mrs Hudson and Lestrade! Molly, yeah, Molly had to do your post mortem! Can you even….'

He stopped suddenly, blinking rapidly at the angry tears shining in his eyes, running a hand through his greying hair. When he spoke again, his voice was distant and soft, locked in his own head.

'No. It's not real. You're not here. You're just a hallucination. Anti-depressants must be wearing off. Yeah, that's it' he turned, slowly plodding back to his door as Sherlock paused.

Suddenly 3 years of loss and loneliness swamped him, the ache in his chest expanding and consuming him, the longing for that light, that tiny light hovering right in front of his eyes, close enough to touch.

Suddenly Sherlock grabbed John roughly, grabbing at him furiously and pulled him into his arms. They must've looked strange. The tall, striking man burrowing his face into the neck of the shorter, plainer man, absorbing the very essence of him, drawing everything about him in case he pulled away, in case he closed himself off, in case he turned to smoke in his arms, in case he wasn't really there.

Sherlock whispered desperately 'I'm real. I'm real, I'm real, I'm real! You've got to trust me. I'm not dead. I'm not a hallucination. You, John Watson, are perfectly sane and I, Sherlock Holmes, am perfectly alive.'

The man had frozen in his arms. He hadn't returned the embrace, but he hadn't objected to it either. He just froze.

When Sherlock finally drew back, he bent down and stared into the man's eyes, gaze flickering between the two, inspecting them for any signs of recognition or pain or anything. 'John…John, say something.' He blinked, jerking back to reality, to the man in front of him and swallowed hard.

'Err…you…you're alive, then.'

'Correct'

'You didn't die.'

'No'

'You're here, in my flat'

Sherlock glanced around 'well not quite. You haven't actually invited me in yet.'


	2. Chapter 2

'I haven't….oh yeah, sorry. Um…Come in, Sh…Sherlock. Wow, I haven't said that sentence in a while' he gave a slightly laugh, barely audible, but it was there. A tiny quirk of the lips. A flicker of hope in Sherlock's chest. Maybe…just maybe. John turned stiffly towards his flat, giving Sherlock the perfect opportunity to check him over briefly.

See, in his head, there was a definitive difference between analysis and intrigue, with one being his grandest performance, and the other, well, the other was new.

New and confusing.

Dark eyes, underlying rings of red; obvious; lack of sleep. Two, no, three day shirt, 3 centimetres short in the arms and 7 millimetres tight around the collar; old, unchanged yet covered with a practically brand new cardigan. Trying to impress, maybe? Or trying to hide? Shoes are relatively new and probably expensive, clearly Mycroft's interference there. Jeans are well worn, creased behind the knee, tiny splatter of red paint around the lower hem, but judging from the absence of it on the hands and shirt, not a decorating job, so why would John be using red poster paint unless… 'Daddy?'

Daddy. Just a simple five letter word, spoken every day in every language, all around the world.

A tiny little word from a tiny little mouth, spoken by a tiny little girl in John's tiny little flat.

An unaccountable proper noun, titling ones father in direct address.

The 1983 novel by Danielle Steele.

The 1917 silent film starring Peggy Kurton.

The 2003 single by Beyoncé Knowles.

And possibly the worst word in the world.

Sherlock froze. Eyes wide, jaw slack. He hadn't…he hadn't thought…Mycroft never said…Lestrade didn't…Daddy? 'Spletelympossible' he burbled. His body was betraying him again. His mouth seemed to move without consulting his brain first, his feet cemented themselves to the carpet, his eyes glued to John's grimacing face. The world around him slowed, a gentle thud in his ear reminding him of reality.

'Sherlock…'

He fled. A million thoughts suffocating him, the corridor had shrunk his body too big, his defences slipped, and he ran. John's warm hand on his arm, the touch he had longed for suddenly repulsed him. He sank down against the sticky wall of the lift, running everything over in his head. The images rolled past his eyes like hills in the windows of moving cars. Spinning and blurring.

John was a father. He'd moved on. He'd actually moved on. Found someone new to care for. Created someone else to run around after. Replaced him.

Screwing his face up in confusion, he felt his heart reach out to those things again. Fear. Regret. Pain. The simple persons coping mechanism, burning him from the inside. How do these ordinary people cope with hearts and emotions, whilst he withers under their intensity?

Sherlock Holmes. The man who brought down an entire criminal organisation in a matter of months; cowering in a broken lift after a 3 minute conversation with his best friend. Pathetic. Suddenly the lift came to a shuddering stop, doors opening into the tarmacked void outside.

He felt his disobedient legs order him out, hand instinctively reaching for his phone in his pocket. But it wasn't there.

There came a series of light footfalls behind and he vaguely heard a panting voice call 'wait' but none of it registered. His battered brain desperately trying to focus on finding his missing lifeline, roaming frantically through his empty pockets, shutting out everything else until the job was done. It usually worked. But apparently, not today.

He felt a rough tug of the shoulder before calloused fingers swung a shiny, black object in front of his face, and the panting voice continued; 'Didn't think you'd want to forget this.'

He quickly snatched the phone away from its captor, checking it for scratch marks, studiously ignoring the man in front of him. With a gruff 'thank you' he turned to walk away, but this time, it was John catching his arm, spinning him round to talk.

'Sherlock, stop being ridiculous and talk to me!'

When Sherlock said nothing, and simply looked around moodily from under his eyebrows, he stated coldly 'Sherlock, you told me you were dead for three years, I think you can at least grant me this.'

It was a low blow, but an effective one nether the less.

'You have a daughter.'

There was a pause.

The words hung in the air between them, accusation heavy in every syllable, before John spoke again; 'No. I don't.' 'Yes you do. I saw her, she was…'

'No' John said firmly. 'Lestrade has a daughter.'

'Lestrade…'

'…has a little girl, by the name of Megan who happened to be staying with me today whilst her 'daddy' was at work. She must've heard me talking to you in the corridor and assumed it was him. I'm not a dad.'

He gave another short laugh

'Who'd ever want to have kids with me, anyway?'...


	3. Chapter 3

People talk about a wave of relief crashing over them in situations like this, but this was so much more than a wave. This was an entire ocean spilling itself on him, drowning him in the overflowing happiness that John was still his. Only his.

'Megan Lestrade…' he'd gained control of his mouth again, despite it protesting against the strange sounding words tumbling out of it.

'Little Megan Lestrade.'

He could feel John's eyes scrutinizing him closely, cautiously monitoring the man's reaction to the little girl in his apartment. 'She's just turned 3. Not really aware of much, but she definitely recognises me, Mrs Hudson, Mycroft…'

'Mycroft?'

There it was again. That tiny lift of the lips. 'Oh yeah! Mycroft and Lestrade have grown rather 'close' in your absence.' John hesitated, eyes dropping and that tiny ghostly smile drooped under the weight of his impending words;

'Donovan used to call them 'the new John and Sherlock'.

As if we'd both died.

As if I'd jumped with you. Sherlock.'

He raised his eyes to meet his friend's, forcing the blue ink back into it, preventing it from rolling onto his unshaven cheek.

Sherlock felt numb. His own elation at his mistake had left him stunned, but now the pain was back. Stabbing at him like needles, like swords. Guilt. Mycroft hadn't told him it would feel like this. Molly had tried, but he didn't want to listen. He'd hidden away for 3 whole years, lonely and paranoid, obsessed with hunting down Moran, with ridding the world of anyone even remotely connected to Moriarty, and now he was back.

And he wished he'd never left.

'Lestrade said you went to the roof a few times' he said carefully.

A splash of colour flooded Johns face, humiliation evident in his features. 'Yeah, well. You know.'

Sherlock looked at him sharply; 'John, I know that over 1.7 million people believe the speed of light is 186,000 miles per second when in fact it's 186,287.49 miles per second. I also know that only one third of all physicists are actually aware of this. I can name every element on the periodic table in alphabetical order, or increasing mass density. I know that a human heart takes over 19 years to fully develop, but only requires an oxygen restriction of 1.5 minutes to die. And I can list every excuse Anderson's ever given to his wife about playing away with Donavon. But, I regret to inform, I do not, and probably will never fully know you.'

John just looked at him. And looked. His face completely unreadable, and when he did speak, it was stiff and unattached.

'You haven't changed at all, have you?'

Sherlock frowned innocently.

Looking back at the frosty ground beneath them, John expelled a quiet breath and said distantly 'I've got to go. Megan's all alone in the flat and Lestrade'll kill me if anything happens to her. God, I shouldn't have even left her for this long. I...I really need to go…' he spun on his heel, marching back towards the stone building.

'No! Wait, I need to…'

John halted and faced him once more, shouting angrily 'Why didn't you just jump, Sherlock? Tell me! Why didn't you just do it? What was the point in...in this? Was it really so important for you to have the last word that you had to humiliate me for three bloody years? Whatever Moriarty did to you, whatever he said, what could've made you stupid enough to pretend to jump off a bloody roof? What…wa…was Irene Adler in on it as well? Did you two sit there, texting about how you were the only two people in the whole sodding world to fool the stupid, ordinary people into thinking you were dead? Did you? Did you swap tips on playing dead? Fake blood? DNA swap? God! You just…you don't even understand, do you? You think that you can just walk in here, whisk me away, back to Baker Street and everything will be fine again. But it won't! It won't…' his voice tailed off breathlessly as he shook his head softly.

'Because look at what I have now! A crappy flat in a run-down estate, living on pity money from my ex-girlfriend. Oh, how I love my life, Sherlock. I really, truly do. So thank you, really thank you. For that. For not jumping. Thank you.' His cry ended, arms spread wide, gesturing widely at the mess of brick and steel surrounding them. With one final glance at Sherlock, he set off for the flat again, head high in defiance, fists clenched in fury.

And Sherlock just stood there, in the snow, watching him walk away.

John felt his cheeks flame as he walked away. How did Sherlock always manage to get the highest rise out of him? How? Lestrade received the occasional sarcastic comment, Mycroft a disapproving whine, but with Sherlock it would always end in nothing short of a domestic row on the street at stupid o'clock in the morning, or a lovers tiff over a mangled corpse! Nothing was ever simple with Sherlock. He needed simple. He needed peace. He needed easy….

'So how do you feel about the violin?'; he heard a voice call from behind him.

He paused.

He smiled.

'Hate the bloody thing.'


End file.
